The Burning Wings
by letsplaypretend
Summary: "And still the waves beat at the shore, and still she walked, and still the shore beat back - because that was all it knew how to do." Sometimes, even an angel needs help; sometimes, a devil is the only choice. {ON HIATUS.}
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything else that is recognizable in this fic. If at any point it gets confusing, please ask me or wait it out - everything happens for a reason, unless it's a mistake._

* * *

She cuts a striking picture, and she knows it. Red hair flies at the wind - brown eyes that could eat the world and still ask for more don't bother to look up - pale skin clings to the sparse amounts of sunlight that are brave enough to touch her skin - the graceful way in which she moves has drawn better men than he is into an oblivion that they begged for - yes, Ginny Weasley is a striking woman.

He stays back from where she walks, following the footsteps that she leaves in the sand as though they will bring to light the way that the world moves around her - not through her or with her or to her, but as though she is a stone in the midst of a creek that has started high in the mountains and flows down towards the earth with an inexorable pace, and she would laugh if she could hear his thoughts. Her laugh brings the sun, though, so he is quite sure that if she laughed at him - never with him; that would be unlike her, in a way that he isn't sure she even knows anymore - he doesn't think he would mind.

She is the sun and the moon to him, and the more that the waves beat at the shore, the more he can feel his wantneedlustlove for her grow and grow, until it as though his heart is moving with the waves. She sways in time to the pulse of the earth - he knows that she is lost to him. If he were close enough to see her, he knows that he would see a face that doesn't see him, eyes that look into the future - so far that he cannot begin to imagine what she is watching, only guess from the play of emotions across her face. And guessing isn't what he wants - he wants to hold her, to feel the slim body against his own and know that for a moment, she is his.

He has never truly had her, though. That is the tragedy of it all - because no one will ever truly own Ginny Weasley. He cannot even say her name without automatically following up with her last name, as though she is so attached to the other in his mind that she is lost without one. He doesn't care; he never cared about her last name. It was the pale skin that had drawn him in first - the skin that glowed in the lights of the candles, the bravery in her face when she looked around the room and didn't see the people she was looking for. He had seen the devastation that had spread in the space between the freckles dotting her nose, had watched as her eyes - others had called them the color of chocolate, but he preferred to think of them as something like heaven - had dimmed,

and then he had smiled at her.

And she had lit up, as though lit from behind - as though the angel that had always watched over her had recognized that, in that very moment when she had accepted his smile - he watched her tuck it away behind her heart, and the answering smile on her lips had tugged at his own heart - she had gained a new protector. And so he had protected her - how he'd protected her! It was as though she were always there - he'd known where she was whenever she walked in the room, had followed her for the years that they'd been trapped in the same glass prison, had woken with her name on his lips when she had been unable to speak. The times that he had found her in the rooms that she fled to - the times he'd wished that he'd had the courage to walk in and stir her from the reverie she sunk into - they would have written a book on their own.

But nothing good will last - it never does, and he'd learned that from a young age, had ached at her learning it, too. She was so much better - she was his angel, was an angel to a world so far gone that it would never even realize. And she'd pined just as he had, she'd given herself to the war just as he had, but she had done it better. Ginny Weasley had stood in the carnage of the Great Battle and smiled, and he'd felt - just as he'd given her a smile when she was younger than young, when she'd still been innocent and pure and what the idea of an angel was, before she'd embodied revenge the way so many others had - that it was all going to be okay.

It hadn't been. Nothing was ever that simple.

And still the waves beat at the shore, and still she walked, and still the shore beat back - because that was all it knew how to do.


	2. Chapter I

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything else that is recognizable in this fic. If at any point it gets confusing, please ask me or wait it out - everything happens for a reason, unless it's a mistake._

* * *

I.

_Chapter One._

His footsteps are quiet against the stones of the corridor, long practice making it easy for the almost-man to walk through the halls of the school without being heard in advance. It has proven a useful talent in the past, and he is sure that it will continue to do so, especially now, when the one he stalks is so very fragile - so very fragile that it hurts him to see her cry. Silky hair gleams silver in the light of the moon, and he slips through the shadows as though they aren't there, following a trail that sings to his heart and bypasses thought of common sense he's ever possessed.

The halls of the school are silent as his conscience, and he doesn't have a problem following the scent she's left behind - she smells like ashes and mint, and it should probably be off-putting. He should probably be concerned that it's _not_, but he's never been entirely up-to-date on what is considered normal by other people, and she's always held him captive, anyway. That her very scent can stir up emotions and feelings and knowledge that he's long suppressed isn't surprising; it's more surprising that it is only him that it affects.

Somewhere deep in a part of him that he would rather not acknowledge, he knows that it won't be just him for long. That doesn't seem to matter much, though, because he didn't ever _really_ think that he could possibly hold onto this secret for too terribly long - a secret isn't kept a secret, no matter how whoever spills it would wish otherwise; sometimes, a secret can't be kept by two people, or three people, and must be shared, told to the world again and again until the foolhardy and somewhat sentient entity accepts the new knowledge.

That he isn't the one who will be there, proving to the world and to the people that inhabit it that he is telling the truth is another strike for honesty that he would rather not face just yet.

And when he rounds the corner, he finds still another - because there she is, Ginny Weasley in all of her _glory_, with red hair that shouts that it is flames, won't you believe it yet?, what does it have to do?, and brown eyes that are tilted up to the ceiling; pale skin that glows in the light of the moon that comes through the single window, skin that is glowing without the help of the moon and only he knows that secret - there's another - Ginny Weasley, who is with another boy-man, and is tilting her head back so that he can easier nip at the glowing skin on her neck, eyelids fluttering shut, moans drifting from too-pouty lips with something that, to him, sounds like _sin_.

He feels something low in his throat, knows that it is not bile and yet lies to himself anyway, and backs out of the room as silently as he came, because he can see the tear tracks that are drying down her cheeks, can tell that she would not want him there - and the boy-man she has chosen for the night is piecing her heart back together with sweat and sex and he cannot match that. His silent presence - the very idea that she wouldn't realize he is there is so ridiculous that he has never even considered the idea - would do more harm than good tonight, and he considers himself mature enough to realize it.

The path back to the dungeons is long.

* * *

The next morning dawns bright and clear – a rarity in the area of Scotland that they reside in – and he resists the urge to hide under his bedcovers and sleep the day away. Down in the dungeons, little light reaches them; that is the curse of being a Slytherin, far above anything that the other three Houses might proclaim so proudly to the world. They are proud and they are clever and they are cunning, and they will never feel shame for that – who is to shame them for their best attributes? There is a reason that so many of the 'higher-ups' were once, are still, Slytherins, and it is not just that some were born into money.

They, above others, will do anything necessary for those that they deem _theirs_, and he has had experience with that – it is a daunting thing, to realize that you have crossed paths with a snake that is protecting its young, or its loved one; you will never come out of it the same, if you come out of it at all.

But being born into the dark – and living in the dark for the seven years that is sometimes called schooling and more often known as the only time you are ever surrounded by those who know you in a House that quickly becomes your family – means that you learn to play _dirty_, and those who reside in the Light can look down on it all they want. He, and the others who play the game, know better – they know _more_, in a sense. It is almost a shame that no one from the light thinks to play in the dark, too, because there is so much to see when your eyes are closed.

He, though, is not a fan of the light – there is only one that he will ever truly believe to be better than she believes that she is, and she is nothing more than a fantasy he has built on a kiss five years ago and stolen moments spent wandering the halls of Hogwarts – and it is a long moment before he pulls himself from his bed.

It is only the thought that he is going to see _her_, at some point in some way during the day that has him really truly moving, and the heat of the shower wakes him up enough to bring a sparkle back to grey eyes, to bring movement back to long limbs. It isn't enough to make him wish that he weren't still sleeping, but then, it is early. His roommates are all gone by the time he emerges – except for Theodore, who has been there through everything and knows him better than he does – Theodore, who betrays him every day and eats with him, too.

The boy was practically _lounging_ on the bed that he'd claimed as his years before – and if anyone could lounge in the Slytherin boys' dormitory, it was Theodore Nott. Pale blue eyes glanced up insolently when he emerged from the bathroom, a small smile flitting onto thin lips. "Took you long enough, Malfoy."

Draco smiles, too, more at ease in the presence of Judas than he would have in that of the Christ's, and reaches for his bag. "Perfection doesn't come easy to us all, Nott."

A laugh danced into the room around them, silvery with the promise it held. "True enough," the other nods, stands smoothly, pulling his cloak around him with ease – they'd grown up in the world of Magic, had grown up as princes; it was not so very difficult when you were five to put on the airs that your fathers practiced and mothers taught.

By the time you were turn sixteen, it is your life, too.

The two leave the room and the comfort of their House together, walking just enough so that Theodore is behind Draco's shoulder, bright eyes laughing and brighter smiles glittering with the fakeness that has become the penchant of their worlds. They talk of nothing on the way to the Great Hall – of the classes and the girls that they have seen, of the world that is changing, of the news.

They do not mention that Draco's father is still in Azkaban, or that Theodore has been vaulted all the higher because of his last act of mercy. Calling it anything other than that would be vulgar, and they have lived all their lives to be above such an adjective; even now, when the world they think that they would like to be in is crumbling around them, they cannot bring themselves to do differently.

Entering the Great Hall does not change things – it simply means that their conversation becomes all the more banal, their steps all the lighter; their smiles all the sharper. Only one would dare to come near them when they are thus, and the one who follows her is just as brave – so, perhaps, it is two who dare. But they have never been in any danger; Draco and Theodore would no sooner hurt a girl of their blood than they would their own families, and families are more important than all else in the world except for their continuation.

They are both rebelling in their own ways, but that does not mean that they do not cling all the more fiercely to the old ways, and the two girls who approach them – women, almost; both of them walk with the grace that shows their knowledge and contentedness in their beauty – have committed themselves to following.

The darker haired of the two slips a thin hand along Draco's shoulder, settling herself next to him with a way of moving that makes him wonder if she has not practiced that and then laugh because of course she has; the other slinks to the where Theodore sits, green eyes flashing playfully in the light. "You were late today," the first murmurs, spreading butter on a piece of toast.

His teeth sparkle in the light of the Great Hall, the grin as honest as the rain that, on occasion, showers from the ceiling. "My apologies, Pansy."

A dark eyebrow raises in obvious disbelief. "Try that again," the girl says, "And this time make me believe you."

Theodore laughs. "You know he doesn't _mean_ it, Pansy. And it is sunny today; cut him some slack." A wink, and even Pansy laughs, the honey-smooth sound mingling with the other girl's more mellow giggle.

Draco has, in the past, been foolish enough to tell them that he associates them with drinks – and if Pansy is the bright, sparkling champagne served at the parties they have all attended, then Daphne is the warm nightcap before bed. The girl in question reaches for the fruit near her and takes a little before passing it on. "We know not to expect anything of Draco when the sun is out," green, feline-like eyes slant towards the boy, "But of _you,_ Theodore…"

The delicately-laid emphasis on the words shifts the attention from him, and he is grateful, focusing on eating and forcing the food down his throat; today will be a long day. He is going to need the nourishment. An elbow jabs into his side and he startles, coughing; turning to glare at Pansy – no one else would dare sit close enough to him, let alone _actually _hit him – the sharp comment dries on his tongue, following her gaze.

She has come into the Great Hall, too – he should have expected it, really – and glimmers in the light of the sun, red hair shining with all the glory of a girl who has nothing to hide. He knows that isn't true, but it is nice sometimes to think it – and a single glance in brown eyes that glitter with the hair would prove that he is right. He doesn't think that anyone else could see it – but he has been wrong before.

Her bright voice rises above that of the other people in the Hall, but he knows that it is just him – he has asked others at time, and it is a trait as unique to him as his hair that he hears Ginny Weasley whenever she speaks.

"She looks tired," Pansy breathes, and, inclining his head, Draco agrees. The circles under her eyes are almost hidden by the gaiety with which she moves and speaks – almost. He thinks bitterly that perhaps it is because she was out so late last night, but stops himself; he cannot think of that, cannot remember the way she looked. There are other things to do today, and the entirety of Slytherin House is not so forgiving of his fascination with the youngest Weasley as the three he spends time with.

"Perhaps she was with someone," Theodore says, a cruel glint sparking in pale eyes. "Draco _did_ come in late last night…" Trailing off suggestively, the boy waits for an explanation.

Draco doesn't give him what he wants to hear. "Perhaps she was. I was studying in the library, Nott, you know that."

The other Slytherin's eyes rolled in clear disdain for the boy-man called friend, but he didn't make a comment; the four gathered together knew full well and good just where Draco had been the night before, just as they knew that the sight of Ginny Weasley embracing Harry Potter hurt him more than anything that Theodore could have thrown at him.

But they are Slytherins, and they do not say a word about it, finishing their breakfast and going swiftly, almost silently to their classes with the nonchalant grace that comes from their Blood.

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**I've finally figured out where this story is going; that means updates should be faster. If you've taken the time to read, at least a word or two, any comments would be very much appreciated.**


	3. Chapter II

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything else that is recognizable in this fic. If at any point it gets confusing, please ask me or wait it out - everything happens for a reason, unless it's a mistake._

* * *

II.

_Chapter Two._

He knows what the Gryffindors would say about his feelings for the classroom that they have all settled into – the cauldrons that bubble around the room, the pictures on the wall that scream of death and worse by various, unimaginable means; the smell that seems to pervade the dungeon room as though it's managed to tuck itself into the cracks in the walls over the last thousand years.

Even without his teacher – and Draco has always thought of Snape as his own, not as anyone else's, perhaps because the man is so good of a teacher to the boy-man, but so horrid to anyone who cannot claim the Slytherin House for their own – even with Slughorn, the dungeons are an escape.

His housemates fan out around him – because of course he was the first to enter the room, when is he ever not? – and he settles himself at the table he has grown accustomed to; it is just close enough to the Gryffindor side of things to keep them on their toes and far enough away to mean that he can watch the Slytherins, too, and somehow in all of that he keeps his sanity, as well. It is not so easy as sometimes he wishes it would be. Daphne is the one who sits next to him this time, and a warm flicker of a smile dashes over his face at the sight of her.

"I drew the short straw," the witch explains, and he counts himself lucky that he is able to hear the joke lingering underneath the syllables. "Theodore and Pansy are over near Gregory and Vincent. I think Vincent said something about needing extra help."

He dips his head in a nod; that makes sense, on one level or another. "Theodore is not the best," the blonde drawls out, setting up the ingredients he needs for the potion that is on the board – one he has completed before, but no matter. "Why didn't they ask me?"

Daphne's eyes glitter. "They're scared to death of you, Draco."

"I've never given them any reason to be."

"Does that matter?"

He has to stop and think about that for a minute, the seemingly innocent question striking home in a heart that has walled itself off so as to resist the barbs that seems to fly towards it so carelessly from all directions when he is not watching. "I… suppose not," he tells her, slightly unsure.

Her gaze lifts skyward, as though to find the elusive patience that so many of the Slytherins lack. "You threatened them in your second year, my love; I rather think Vincent would sooner chew off his own toenails than admit to you that he is anything less than sufficient at nearly everything."

"That's ridiculous," protest is clear in the clear words, "I never threatened death, Daphne. I told them only that if they were to follow me as my father had so clearly indicated – "

"Which scared them half to death, yes." She lifts a brow. "You weren't supposed to _know_ that they were given instructions to follow you."

It is Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "The Malfoys have always been guarded by _someone_, and your family is too proud for that, the Parkinsons too rich, and the Notts are too likely to switch sides." He very carefully doesn't say that such an occurrence is exactly what has happened. Daphne knows that.

Her mouth falls open, but whatever she is going to say is interrupted by the appearance of Slughorn, sweeping into the classroom without the usual panache that Snape carries with him as though perfume; Draco is forced to admit, though, that it is just as impressive, if in a different way. Slughorn reminds him too closely of McGonagall; he sees things far more clearly than any of the Slytherins would wish.

"We all know what we're doing, then?" The professor asks cheerfully, sweeping protuberant eyes across the classroom quickly; he doesn't think even that if someone _didn't_ know what they were doing, they would not dare to speak up. "Excellent! The instructions are on the board as well as in your book – " the sound of flipping pages is heard throughout the classroom as the students turn to the correct potion – "And you have the length of this class period, as well as the next, to finish."

A wave of a chubby hand. "Proceed!"

Daphne continues as though she had never been interrupted as, all around the pair, the class divides and conquers – so to speak, Draco thinks with a slight sneer, watching Potter and the older Weasley rush to the cabinet. "Yes, well, the point remains. Vincent got the hint; you know Gregory might as well have been born deaf for all he listens to anyone except for your father and his own."

Draco grins; it isn't a very nice expression. "I'll have to talk to him again."

An approving glance is slid towards him from brilliant green eyes. "There's my Draco." At his brow lift, she laughs – and the clear, sibilant sound carries across the vague mumbling of the rest of the class, drawing the attention of Pansy and Theodore. "Not mine perhaps… But mine all the same."

He doesn't dispute it, and the rest of the class period is spent in a daze that seems as close to heaven and _happy_ as he will ever _truly_ know in his life.

* * *

The slight break before Transfiguration isn't nearly long enough, the Slytherins have already concluded, for them to entirely recuperate from the fumes of the Gryffindors' potion-making atrocities; even in the most well-bred of their circles, only Granger and the youngest Weasley are given credit for the simple fact that their potions do not make delicate stomachs nauseous. No one is _quite_ naïve enough to clutch their stomachs as they leave the dungeons, but if Pansy's green-tinged complexion is anything to go by, or Theodore's death threats that hang, unfinished, in the air, it is a close thing.

"Do shut up, Nott," Draco drawls, seeing the way that the Gryffindors' path threatens to intersect with their own, "They might hear you. Whatever would they say if they knew that you were planning to poison their mead?"

Only the sharp glance that Daphne gives him shows that he has slipped – but the equally sharp grin that dances on pale lips shows all the more that he knows what game he is playing, and is more than aware that the stakes are higher than they have ever been.

Theodore scoffs. "As though I would be so mundane, Draco," blue eyes sparkle. "I should wish for a poisoned knife, instead."

Pansy chimes in, still too pale for her normal vibrant hue but beautiful even in the lack, "You're far too _refined_ to stab them in the back, Theo," Potter's head raises at that, and Draco only barely resists the urge to roll his eyes; it is so very _Gryffindor_ to realize only upon the mention of treachery that something is afoot, and he cannot give them another warning. "You would challenge them to a duel."

"If they stink up the dungeons anymore," the Slytherin responds blandly, "I shouldn't think I would have to worry about it. They will end up killing us all anyway."

Weasley's face breaks into a scowl, now more than close enough to have both heard what they had said and realized that it was about them that they were referring. "Are you talking about us, Nott?" He asks in strident tones, and Granger and Potter close ranks behind him.

Draco can almost admire the way that they watch each other's back, but he is too busy searching for the spark in the redhead's face that he sees too much in _hers_. It is there, but faint; there is hope, then, however muted. "Why on _Earth_ would we do that?" He breaks in, stopping whatever Theodore was planning to say.

The brown-headed boy-man glares, but steps back all the same; they know as well as Draco does that this is a part he plays, and the skill with which he does so will determine how long the executioner is kept at bay this time.

"I dunno, _Malfoy_," Weasley spits the name as though it is glass in his mouth, "Don't really think you're worthy of talking about us, anyway. Your precious daddy's in prison, you know."

He tenses; that is a low blow, and Daphne, coiled into a vibrating spring at his side, purses her lips. "What a clever comeback, Weasley," the slim young woman drawls laconically, "How long did that take you to come up with it?"

"Enough," Potter finally interjects, a long hand placed on Weasley's chest to keep him from launching himself forward as he is so obviously longing to do. Draco watches it with interest – he has not thought, in the past, that it is the hero of the Wizarding World who ought to be watched, but perhaps he was wrong.

Perhaps there was more to the story that it was he who defeated the Dark Lord than he had previously thought. The spark of intelligence that shines so brightly in green eyes that could give even Daphne's a run for their money seems to think so, and Draco's brow rises against his better sense.

"We don't need to pick a fight with Slytherins," he continues, and his knuckles whiten slightly with the force he is using against the Weasley's chest.

Granger seems to think of something, and turns to whisper it into the dark haired wizards ear, whose brows lift seemingly in thought. Bright eyes turn to Draco, who stands all the taller; he might be looked at as though he is being examined, but he is not ashamed of anything.

"Scared, Potter?" He asks softly, the words drawing him back to the duel of their second year, when all was still right in the world. The Slytherin had still believed that his life was going to be the way he wanted it; he was not yet fighting a losing battle, nor was he believing himself to be lost to the world. He was simply Draco, and he was watching _her_ as though it were a duty he'd taken on – not an obsession that had taken _him_.

The other's lips curve into a grin. "You wish."

A shake of his head. "I have no knowledge of fear," Draco says loftily, and it is something that he would have said, were they still in their third year, and it startles a laugh from Potter, the sound ringing across the courtyard.

All is still.

Draco isn't entirely sure what just happened – and he knows that Granger feels the same, big brown eyes that show intelligence too clearly for her to be truly so glancing between the duo in confusion; Daphne is doing much the same, though she alternates with smirking at the Weasley boy, who is trying so _desperately_ to stare her down. It is almost working.

"We have class," Pansy says finally, "And so do you." Her gaze indicates that it is _they_, and not the Slytherins, who need it so much more. "Ta, Potter, Granger… Weasley." A turn, dark hair settling itself around thin shoulders, and she is taking Theodore with her, too. That leaves Draco with Daphne, and he draws her near to him, his arm slinking around her waist.

She resists for a moment then falls in line with him, and the walk to their next classroom commences – the Gryffindors that had risen their tension level are still behind them. Draco can easily imagine the expressions on their faces: Weasley with the befuddlement that conceals that tactician he _could_ be; Granger with calculating brilliance; Potter with the sharp intelligence that had shown itself so briefly.

"Did you see – " Daphne starts, low, "Potter's face? He seemed almost…"

"One of us." Draco finishes softly. "Yes."

Even without being able to see her face full on, he knows that she is pursing her lips in thought. "I don't like it."

He shrugs loosely. "So long as it does not begin to interfere with my day to day life, Daphne…"

She takes the hint – this is not the time. "I see. Are we on for tonight?"

The Slytherin tenses, and knows that she feels it. "Yes."

Wisely, perhaps, Daphne says no more.

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**It's shorter, but, then, it's a bit of a filler. I hope you all like it, even still; and thank you to those lovelies of you who reviewed. I appreciate it more than I could ever tell you.**


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